The Art of Losing
by ProcrastinatingPalindrome
Summary: America doesn't deal well with England leaving. England struggles to understand what's going on inside his little colony's head.


The first time England had to leave America was a disaster of apocalyptic proportions. The entire week prior to his departure had been filled with hysterics and tantrums, the likes of which England was simply incapable of coping with. America was normally such a cheerful child, but for that week he was inconsolably miserable.

America threw fits. He begged England not to leave. Once he barricaded himself in England's bedroom, apparently under the impression that England couldn't go away if America held his belongings hostage (and considering that he was perfectly capable of lifting every piece of furniture in the room and shoving it up against the door, that barricade was nothing to sneeze at.) Bed wetting had never been an issue before, but America woke up soaked almost every night that week (which was even more troublesome on the nights he crawled into England's bed first.) More concerning than that was his loss of appetite. England had only seen America turn away a meal when he was dreadfully ill, but now he just nibbled at his dinner and shoved food around on his plate before refusing to take another bite.

The crying was even more dreadful. It would come in waves, often when England would mistakenly think that America was finally calming down. There were great noisy wails which showed off all of America's impressive lung capacity, and fat blobby tears that soaked into England's shirt where America was burying his face, and huge wracking sobs that shook his entire body and made England fear that the boy was going to make himself ill. England felt utterly lost and helpless in the face of his colony's misery.

The worst thing of all was that America held on to the unshakable, ironclad belief that England was leaving him forever, and nothing England did or said seemed to convince him otherwise. He tried reasoning with the boy and explaining his situation, that it just wasn't possible for him to stay forever, that he had things to take care of back home across the sea, but he would return as soon as he could. It did no good. America was certain he was lying, and would just cry even harder when England tried to tell him that he was wrong.

England had expected a colossal meltdown at the harbor when he finally left, but America was thoroughly exhausted at that point and seemed incapable of anything but clinging to England's breeches and sobbing weakly against his leg until England finally had to pry him off and give him a quick, awkward hug farewell. Then he simply stood there and watched England go, not even bothering to wave goodbye, the very picture of dejection. England could hardly bear to watch the miserable little figure fade away as the ship departed.

No matter how hard England wracked his brain, he couldn't understand what he had done to make America get so attached to him so quickly. He was _horrible_ with children, really. He was never certain how to talk to them, he couldn't understand how their minds worked, and his tendency to scowl usually scared them away. America was just a strange child. None of that seemed to bother him one bit. He loved England anyway, when there were a thousand perfectly good reasons why he shouldn't.

England simply wasn't accustomed to being utterly adored. Oh, he had been liked before, even loved a few times, but this was something else entirely. This was so honest, so innocent and disarmingly sincere, and England felt like an absolute beast for breaking that little boy's heart.

Arrangements had been made beforehand to ensure that America was looked after. England had picked a few colonists out personally who seemed trustworthy to stop by America's house a few days a week to bring food and make certain that the lad was well and safe. And really, America would probably be fine by himself. He had been surviving on his own for some time before England found him, hadn't he? England had just taught him a few things to make him more civilized, like how to use a fork and bathe himself. He tried to reassure himself that everything would be fine, but he still worried endlessly about the little colony.

It didn't help that he began receiving word from the colony of drought, famine, all manner of troubles. Only a few stern words from the king talked him out of boarding the next ship set for Virginia. Eventually the news from the colonies turned more hopeful, and finally, after years of being away, England found the time to pay another long visit.

America was a bit taller when England finally returned, and hugged him tightly enough to leave bruises upon his arrival (and maybe cried just a little bit, but he wiped his face on England's shirt and hid the evidence quickly enough.)

"I didn't think you were coming back," America said softly, as they walked back to his house together. "I thought you were going away for good."

England swallowed thickly, guilt panging in his chest as he remembered their last parting. "Of course I wasn't going to abandon you. Whatever gave you that idea?"

America looked away and mumbled something then, and England could have sworn he heard him say 'Roanoke.' He brightened up again before England could question him further. "It doesn't matter. You came back this time. I missed you lots and lots! I got bigger while you were away. Did you notice?"

England _had_ noticed, and told him as much, grinning at the way the boy puffed up with pride. It wasn't just his height, he would notice over time. America was more sure of himself than he had been when England left. He clung less, cried less, wanted to do more by himself. He had even learned to read and write in the time that England had been gone, which was oddly disappointing. England had wanted to be the one to teach him that, but America had turned to colonist school teacher to get his lessons instead. At least his spelling was still atrocious. England could help him with that.

* * *

The months flew by all too quickly again, and England found himself searching for an excuse to extend his visit. He was loath to leave again, especially since the last time had been such a nightmare. He wanted to stay longer, but there was simply too much work to be done back home. He tried to break the news gently to America.

Something was different this time. America didn't cry when England told him he was leaving again in a week. He simply went very quiet, and then excused himself to his bedroom.

England kept waiting over the next few days for a meltdown or a tantrum, but nothing happened. America didn't throw a fit. He didn't break down in tears. He didn't lock himself in England's room. He didn't wet the bed. He didn't refuse to eat. He seemed almost normal, except that he was unusually quiet and distant. The quiet worried England even more than the hysterics. Didn't America understand that England was going away again? Didn't he care? Had he just grown distant in the years they had been apart? That wasn't so hard to believe. America had honestly thought that England had left him for good. Of course he would close himself off. Of course he would stop loving England sooner or later.

England kept waiting and hoping for something to change. He left the door to his bedroom open every night, waiting for America to come crawling in bed with him at some ungodly hour as he so often did when he was upset. It had been a nuisance before. Now he felt curiously lonely when America stayed in his own bed all night.

Nothing changed. America stayed distant and secretive, disappearing into his bedroom for hours each day. England tried to follow him, but the door was always locked, and America claimed to be very busy whenever England tried to get him to come out.

There was no change at all in the pattern, until the last night before England's ship was set to leave Virginia. For the first time all week, England woke up to the familiar sound of little bare feet against the wooden floor. England stayed still and quiet, feigning sleep, and after a few moments he felt the bed dip slightly. A warm little body curled up against his back, hands gripping his nightshirt. England was set to keep pretending to be asleep until he heard the first muffled sob.

"Lad?" he whispered, and felt America go rigid. For a horrible moment he thought the boy was going to run away and close himself off again. When America didn't move, England rolled over to face him, wrapping an arm around his back to keep him close. "A-are you all right?"

America nodded mutely, curling closer into England's arms.

"What happened? Did you have a nightmare?" England felt America's hair tickle his chin as he shook his head. "Did something outside frighten you?" America shook his head again. "Did you wet the bed? Are you feeling ill? Are you cold? Or too warm?"

America just kept shaking his head to every question, inching slowly closer until he was pressed up against England's chest.

England gulped as his throat tightened. "D-did you just want to stay with me tonight? Is that it?"

That finally earned him another nod from America, and an unhappy snuffling sound. England was never any good at comforting words, so he just held the trembling body a little tighter, hoping that was enough. Eventually the sniffles died away as America began to drift off. England relaxed at last, looking at the little hands clutching his shirt as he settled back down to sleep. There were curious dark stains on the pudgy fingers, but it didn't seem terribly important as sleep claimed him too.

* * *

America had vanished from England's bed by morning. England tried not to feel disappointed about that as he dressed and finished packing up, stacking up books and folding a few more shirts and a pair of breeches. America's bedroom was locked again when England went looking for him.

"I'm busy!" he called through the door when England knocked. "Go ahead to the harbor. I'll meet you there!"

England just couldn't understand that boy at all. Last night he had been almost normal, but now he was being distant again. So what had last night been about? Perhaps he really had just been frightened by a noise outside or something of that nature. Perhaps it really had nothing to do with England leaving. Perhaps he just...honestly didn't care anymore.

England should have insisted that America accompany him to the harbor, but he couldn't bring himself to drag the boy along when it clearly didn't matter to him if England stayed or left. There would still be people to bring him food and check up on him after England left. There was no real need for America to see him off. The road to the harbor felt uncommonly long, and England let a melancholy haze settle on his mind along the way. It all blurred together, arriving at the harbor and overseeing the last of his things being stored away on the ship, and he had been just about to go ahead and board the ship early when he heard a little voice shouting, "Wait, WAIT, WAAAAAAAIT!"

America came barreling at England from the crowd, clutching a bundle to his chest and panting for breath. "Y-you were g-g-gonna leave without saying g-goodbye!" he scolded, frowning up at the elder country.

England grappled for words for a moment. "I didn't think you wanted to see me off," he said lamely.

"Of course I do! I said I would meet you there! I just had to finish up your present!"

England's mouth fell open. "You-...I...what?"

"_Present,_" America repeated, loud and slow as if England was hard of hearing. "Tah-dah!" He held out a thick stack of paper.

"A-and what's all this?" England asked weakly. His head was starting to spin.

"It's your letters!" America said proudly, sticking out his chest a little. "I heard this is what the ladies in town do before their husbands go away on long trips. The lady gives him a great big stack of letters that she wrote before he left, so he can read them all the time while he's gone and think about her and all the good stuff at home, and it'll make him want to come back soon! So I that's what I did for you!"

England gaped. Suddenly it all made sense, why America was so occupied all week, and those dark stains on his fingers that must have been from ink...

"C-can I read them now?"

"Just a few," America allowed. "If you read them all now, you won't have anything left for your trip!"

"Quite right," England mumbled, sitting down next to America and flipping through the first pages with their large, messy scrawl.

* * *

_Deer England_

_This is my first leter an Im gonna rite you a hunred so you dont forgit me._

_Love  
-Amrika-  
-Amerkuh-  
-Amireca-  
Me_

_

* * *

_

_Deer England_

_Ther is a blakbery bush next to my howse. If you com bak soon you can eet som berys. They are yumy._

_Love  
Me_

_

* * *

_

_Deer England_

_I lernt how to make tee all by myself. Ill practis mor wile your gone, so when you com bak I can make you the best tee ever._

_Love  
Me_

_

* * *

_

_Deer England_

_I thot you wood get tird reeding so much, so I drawed you pichures insted._

There was a mess of scribbles below.

_This is you and me going for a wok in the woods._

_Love  
Me_

_

* * *

_

_Deer England_

_I drawed more pichures for you._

More scribbles.

_This is you and me and a buny. His name is Hophop and hes my best frend after you._

_Love  
Me_

_

* * *

_

_Deer England_

Scribble scribble___._

_This is you and me unner a blankit becuse its cold._

_But Im not cold rite now, so its okey. You dont hav to wory._

_Love  
Me_

_

* * *

_

_Deer England_

_Dont wory abot me. Ill be okey wile your gone. Ill be good and youll be proud of me. I love you lots and lots and lots._

_Love  
Me_

_

* * *

_

The words on the page blurred together and England bit down hard on his lip, blinking furiously. He swallowed thickly, but it wasn't enough to stop the first few tears from leaking out. He dropped his head and tried to surreptitiously dry his eyes before anyone else noticed. America promptly blew his cover to anyone within earshot.

"Why are you crying?" he exclaimed, grabbing at England's sleeve. "Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad. Please don't cry!"

England sniffed hard and blinked up at the worried little face in front of him, those round blue eyes and _I love you lots and lots and lots._ An embarrassingly strangled sound escaped from England's throat before he could stop it, and suddenly America lunged forward, throwing his arms around England's neck.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry I wrote you those stupid letters. I'm sorry, so don't b-be sad!"

England shook his head, struggling to force words out past the lump in his throat. "I'm n-not. I'm not sad. You-you just...you m-made me very ha-happy." More than he could ever say, could ever put into words.

America sniffled noisily against his shoulder. "You aren't supposed to cry when you're happy."

"Ru-rubbish. Plenty of people do."

"Really?"

"Really. A-all the time."

America finally let go and pulled back, scrubbing his eyes and nose on his sleeve. England winced at the sight and fished out a handkerchief from his pocket, hastily moping up his own face before turning to offer it to America. The boy was still scrubbing his face with his sleeves, and now that England looked more closely he could see the little shoulders starting to shake.

"'M sorry," America quavered. "I-I was trying to be good and n-not cry this time."

For once, it all seemed to come naturally to England. It was so easy, so simple to just lean forward and pull America into a hug and rub soothing circles into his back. America melted into him and clung to the front of his coat, and for the first time since America picked England to be his brother, everything fell right into place.


End file.
